


Never send to know...

by Anarchyinplasma



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Gen, mild depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6566419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarchyinplasma/pseuds/Anarchyinplasma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragile hearts of naiveté shatter and die in the cold light of day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never send to know...

**Author's Note:**

> So recently a friend of mine and I replayed Reach, and realised that of our original team we are the only members still playing, so this spawned. Sorry it isn't my regular stuff fans, but that's coming. It's just taking a couple of days.

There was blood everywhere, the grass was stained deep crimson by its mere passing. Spartan A-021 felt like his shoulder was on fire, his entire squad had been hit hard, ambushed by a pack of brutes. Their sheer ability to shrug off smaller calibre fire had been key to overpowering the Spartans initially, allowing them to get in major damage before the Spartans had been able to do much barring spray and pray.

He looked over at his shoulder, blood trickled from the gap between the plating, the massive shoulder guard holding his specialist knife felt like it weighed far more than normal, he couldn't move his arm. It hit him then, he couldn't move his arm, there was a massive, jagged, lump of metal embedded in his shoulder, deep enough at least that he could feel it scraping at his bone when he shifted, he'd be leaving at least some of him on Reach.

His helmet had been damaged in the initial engagement, dented by a gravity hammer shockwave going off in close proximity, the faceplate was a million golden pieces on the wind, so any and all HUD read-outs were out of the question. He heard the gentle thump of falcon blades on the wind and slipped into unconsciousness as the skids hit dirt.

Memories of the fight flashed past him in his daze, James had been violently eviscerated, his torso pulverised by the shockwave that had broken the faceplate, Rowan had been shot with a concussion rifle, his beating heart and breathing lungs briefly visible through the roughly punched hole in his chest cavity. His brother hadn't fared much better, losing a limb to a plasma grenade and being unable to defend himself.

He thought Max was still alive, the demolitions expert had been using his own custom explosives packages to kill brutes outside of CQC. As for himself, he'd been in his element, close quarters. His knife had jammed in the last remaining aliens' eye socket, then the brutes’ suicide grenade had blown the tanks they were standing next to, ending the fight.

He came round to blinding light and a military hospital, looking at where his right arm had been, he hadn't expected much else, there had already been a port implanted for what he assumed would be a functioning prosthesis, still, if it worked…

He sat up, and saw Max a bed over, apparently he'd come out of the explosion just as badly. His left leg was missing just above the knee, a replacement had already been fitted however, it looked to be calibrated well enough, no random fits of motion.

A doctor entered, a stern looking women in a white coat, military dress beneath it. Her expression softened slightly at seeing him awake, and she deposited a folder on his bedside table, then turned to leave.

As he grasped at the folder something fell out into his lap, several pairs of dog-tags, his own, James A-021, his sole surviving teammate's, Max A-004. Then the other three, James A-274, Rowan A-132, and Alex A-275. He slipped his own around his neck, feeling comfort in the familiar cold metal, then placed the rest back on the table and looked at the rest of the folder’s contents, dossiers on more Spartans, with a sigh he threw the folder back onto the table. Practically, he understood needing Pyre back to full strength, but this was a little soon. The paper rustling woke his teammate, who threw him a questioning glance. In return, James threw his tags at him and saw him slip them over his head.

The small smile Max now possessed didn't reach his eyes, it probably wouldn't for a while, come to think of it. The door opened suddenly and with sharp report, several doctors and nurses striding in, his bed was unlocked and moved, into the hallway with signs above marking the way to the prosthetics lab.

He was wheeled in and left to his thoughts, before another doctor, an older man with a kind face entered. His smile was reassuring.  
“Hello, I'm Dr. Mallard” he introduced himself with a classical English accent, with the barest hint of Scottish brogue. “Now then dear boy, let's get you fixed the rest of the way, I'm afraid you were asleep last time we met, such a shame to have to do this to you at all I'm afraid”. He cut himself off.

“Well now, let's see about this arm shall we?”


End file.
